Heretic

Chapter 2

Walking back to the inn through the town, the very place Marilk and his warriors had been hoping to curse with their human sacrifice, Isaand felt a thousand eyes upon him. Huge totem poles towered over the town from a dozen spots, the highest of them a hundred feet high. Each were topped with a carved winged figure with a head consisting only of four large eyes, one turned in each cardinal direction. As if that wasn’t enough, there were eyes carved into walls, over the threshold of each house, painted on the pathstones beneath his feet, and even embroidered into the clothes of the villagers he passed by. He knew the local god, Tzamet, was a harsh and judgmental god, and the villagers evidently felt it was worth ensuring that no one ever forgot he was watching.

Let him watch, so long as he is not watching me, Isaand prayed. Not for the first time, he reflected on the irony that he, a faithful priest, put no stock in his own prayers. Most people never left the territory of their own gods, and knew that there was at least a possibility of divine intervention in their favor. But Szet had been honest with Isaand. The Unbound had no power in another god’s land, not unless he wished to draw a thousand gods’ wrath down on him. Szet had given Isaand the power to help himself. That would have to be enough.

Isaand nodded and smiled at the villagers as he passed them by, but while Tzamet’s eyes were always watching, his followers did not seem to follow his example. Each of them kept their eyes downcast, avoiding him only by his shadow on the ground before him.

In Isaand’s hands he carried a bundle of clothes and a chicken from a farm on the edge of the village, still slowly bleeding from its cut throat. The farmer had raised her eyebrows when Isaand asked if she would be willing to slaughter it for him, and no, he didn’t need her to pluck it. Isaand had a good long traveler’s knife at his belt, but blood and pain made him squeamish. Just as well Vehx hadn’t come along. He would have teased him about that.

The inn had its timber walls painted with wide blue eyes every few feet, with an enormous vertical eye on the flap of hide that served as a door. Isaand pushed it aside and ducked into the low, dark building. He began to shiver as he stepped within. Most like it was a pleasantly cool place to drink out of the sun, but Isaand’s white skin felt only cold. Isaand nodded to the inn-keep, a fat dark-skinned man with his hair in braids and eyes tattooed on his eyelids. He was leaning hard against his counter, eyes closed tight so that his painted gaze seemed to follow Isaand around the room. We can’t leave this place soon enough, Isaand thought.

Isaand opened the door to his room and saw Vehx sunning himself on the windowsill, his snakelike body tightened up in a spiral with his wings and legs folded up beneath him. He opened one lazy red eye and perked up when he saw the chicken.

The room’s bed lay to his right, next to a small chest, and another was across the room, currently out of sight. A woven cloth was hanging from a pair of pegs on the ceiling, blocking off half the room. On the other side of it, Isaand could hear water sloshing in the big copper tub. Though he’d been gone over an hour, Ylla was still bathing, it seemed. Well, he could scarcely blame her. No doubt she wanted to wash off any lingering touch of her death.

“How long has it been since you killed it?” Vehx demanded.

“Four or five minutes. I assume that counts as ‘freshly slain,’ or do sendra bans quibble at words like a Mekhar merchant?” Isaand asked.

“It will do. Give!” Vehx launched himself across the room and onto Isaand’s chest, snatching at the chicken. Isaand pushed him off where he fell to the floor with a graceless thump.

“You’ll make a bloody mess in here. Take it outside.”

Vehx grumbled, but took the chicken and flapped out of the open window to eat his fill in the lawn outside.

Isaand turned to the curtain. “Girl, I brought clothes. I’ll leave them here for you.” Blindly, he reached past the curtain and set them on the floor beside the tub. Her own clothes had been so fouled and tainted by the plague she’d died from that they’d left them on the plain, Ylla wearing one of his extra cloaks until they’d reached the town across the river. The sloshing of water was the only response he got. He kept his other gift in his inner cloak pocket. He hoped he wouldn’t have to give it to her so soon.

Sighing deeply, Isaand lay on the bed and wrapped cloak and blanket around him, trying to get warm. He was tired, and aching, and anxious.

A while later, he heard movement, and turned over to see Ylla push the curtain aside, dressed. He’d bought standard attire for the young girls of this grassy region: a hand’s-span wide cloth strap that covered her chest, a long skirt of soft white doeskin with a woven grass belt, and a pair of tough leather shoes for traveling. He’d also bought her a simple wooden armband. Isaand had grown up with five younger sisters, seven if you counted the Garrsa twins, and they had always insisted on wearing some kind of accessories to differentiate themselves from each other. He hoped the cheap jewelry would raise her spirits.

Ylla herself looked like a new girl. Her skin was no longer gray, but a warm brown color, and her hair had regained its luster, though it was browner than he would have guessed. She stood straight and energetic, but her expression was guarded.

Isaand sat up, the blanket still wrapped around him, and thought how he should speak to her. He had awful news, and no desire to burden her with it after all she had been through, but it had to be said.

“Ylla, child, I’m afraid we need to talk. There are some harsh truths you need to know. We’ll leave this inn today, and where we’re bound… well, you see-” he started.

“I can’t go back home,” Ylla said, soberly. Isaand was taken aback.

“Yes, that’s correct. But why do you suppose that is…?”

“Marilk and Jarik and Kennen were going to kill me. They called on Goddess Amauro to stop you from healing me. By living, I defy her. If I go back, they’ll be angry.” Ylla’s voice cracked a bit as she spoke, but her expression remained stoic. She seemed practiced at speaking unpleasant facts.

“That is all true, but that’s not actually the reason why. I’m afraid I have some things to explain. First of all, I didn’t heal you, not precisely. The curse upon you ended with your death, expiring on its own. I revived you, and so you were well. But Ylla, you were dead, and now you’re not, and that is not the way things are supposed to be. There are repercussions.”

“Am I going to get sick again?” Ylla asked, face scrunching up in worry.

“No. Your body is healthy and normal. No problems there.” Isaand sighed. “The effect you’ll face is on your soul. I’m not sure where I should start in explaining. I assume you’ve probably heard about the Unbound?”

“They’re demons, who oppose the gods and tempt people to do bad things,” Ylla said with the easy certainty of youth.

“That is what most churches teach, yes. The truth is more complicated. This world we live in is a young one, the fifth such world created by the gods and populated by us, the humans they made to observe and revere them. What happened to the previous four? They were all destroyed, torn asunder by the warring gods who couldn’t agree how they should be ruled. With each world shattered, millions, perhaps billions, of men and women died, along with all manner of strange and unique lands and creatures we will never know.”

As he spoke, the cold seemed to fall away from Isaand as his focus became the tale he told. Old master Teraandis’ lessons were still within him. He began to speak in the low, clear, lyrical style taught to him as an Aislic bard. Ylla sat on the floor and leaned forward to listen to him, attentive.

“The gods may demand our fealty, but their actions have shown that they are no less petty, no less violent, and no more wise than common man. Gods and goddesses command great power, and they have grown to expect respect and deference. When one defies them, they lash out, consequences be damned. And so again and again, they destroyed everything they had worked together to create, leading to an endless cycle of pointless waste. Finally, they realized it could not go on that way. The oldest, wisest gods came together and put forth a proposal.

Stolen story; please report.

‘The only way we can ensure our beautiful world survives is to maintain restraint of our power. Those among us who are rash cannot be trusted to do so, so we must all be bound as one.’

And so the gods came together, and for a thousand years they argued and debated, until at last the details were decided and the Pact became written. All gods of the Fifth World would limit themselves, giving up the bulk of their power and restricting their influence to a specific region, or creature, or thematic ideal. All agreed, and so it was done.

But there were a few who did not accept the Pact. They withheld themselves at the last moment, and by the time the others realized what they were done it was too late for them to do anything, for they were already weakened. Those gods who maintained their strength are the Unbound, free to spend their influence anywhere in the world they choose, to watch over and protect any who dares pray to them, regardless of where they happen to have been born or forced to live. The gods despise the Unbound, because they represent freedom. Freedom to use their power as they believe is right, and freedom for the few men who espouse them.

Demons they are called, but the Unbound are no more cruel or capricious than those who follow the Pact. I do not praise them all. Elgaea the Wild believes humanity is a mistake, a blight on the natural world, and sends forth plagues, famines, and vicious beasts to slay them by the tens of thousands. Tyrqa, the Temptress, plays with men as if they were toys, turning whole nations and tribes against each other purely for her own amusement. Khazdan is mad, and in his violent outbursts has sundered mountains and sunk islands.

But my god, Szet the Restorer, the Peaceful, the Cultivator… he is different. He gave me a purpose when I was meant to die pointlessly and painfully like my parents and siblings and cousins. He has given me the power to heal and to prevent harm, and the freedom to use his powers as I see fit. That, I think, is the true difference. The bound gods might grant miracles to their paladins and Lectors and even their common folk on occasion, but it is always for their purpose, their glory.”

Isaand took a deep breath. He’d gotten too far off-topic. Rarely was he given the chance to speak freely about his beliefs, heretical as they were. Ylla was watching, waiting patiently.

“So what does this all have to do with you, I’m sure you’re wondering. Well, when I revived you, I used Szet’s power to pull your soul out of the Churn, and return it to your body. Doing so has left a mark. You have been suffused with Szet’s power, and that power is recognizable to any god as that of an Unbound. They will not tolerate it in their lands. You will no longer be recognized by your own goddess, Amauro, nor by any other. The clerics who rule each tribe will grant you no blessings, no rights. Most will not suffer you to live. It will be a harsh life, I’m afraid. You’ll have to remain always on the move. The mark of the Unbound upon us is unmistakable, but it does not immediately draw godly attention. So long as we do not attract undue attention they will not know we are passing through their lands. But we can’t stop for long, and we cannot hope to interact peacefully with those who serve them.”

Isaand felt a hard lump in his chest. Laid out so clearly, he wondered if he’d done the girl a favor at all by condemning her to this life of loneliness and hardship. Would she be able to appreciate the life she had no, or would she only become bitter and angry, and hate him and Szet for what they had done to her.

“Ylla… I am sorry. I did not ask your permission to return you to this life, no more than those warriors asked if you would be slaughtered. I fear I have made a mistake…”

He raised his eyes and saw that she had her head down, hair hanging over her face, shoulders hunched forward. Was she crying? There were no sobs, but she seemed a quiet girl, more like to shrivel up inside than to cry out in pain.

Time passed slowly, awkwardly, more than a minute. The longer Ylla was silent, the more Isaand despaired. He regretfully put his blanket aside and started to reach for her shoulder, to comfort her, when she raised her face.

A narrow smile lit up her face. She did not look practiced at smiling, but her eyes were wide and shining and her joy clear to behold. With a little hop, she got to her feet and looked him in the eye.

“Lector Isaand, you have given me a great gift. I thank you, from the bottom of my heart,” she said, softly, and bowed deeply from the waist. The speech had the air of formality to it. Most like it was something she’d been taught to say to priests and the like at formal occasions. Still, she seemed sincere.

Ylla began to talk, telling him in a great rush of the vast mundanity of her life. The village where she’d lived was small and poor, devastated by war from the local tribes, due to grudges going back generations. Her parents were farmhands, working the lands of other men who looked down on them and paid them pittance, and Ylla had learned to work alongside them almost since she could walk. She showed them how calloused her hands were. She loved her parents, but could not love the land she’d left, and did not think of it as home.

“Amauro the Wolf was not my goddess,” she explained. “My parents were born in Ulhest, to the south, but they were driven out by war when I was little. My older brothers died there. Mother showed me their things, and talked about them a lot, but I don’t remember them. Father never talked about them at all. The place they lived was burned, so they went to another, but it burned too, and they had to leave the whole country. The people in Amauro’s lands didn’t like us. They called us “apostates,” because father worshiped another god. But when he tried to convert, they wouldn’t let him do that either. No one was very nice to them, and father told me I couldn’t play with the other children, because it was dangerous. So, I don’t mind being claimed by Sett. I never really had a god of my own before. Is he nice?”

“Nice? No,” Isaand said, smiling. “But he is kind.”

Ylla frowned. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Not at all. Kindness is about one’s actions, while niceness is merely talk and show. When Szet first called to me-”

Ylla flinched and Isaand stopped talking as there was a loud scrabbling at the window. Vehx launched himself back up it, claws tearing tiny gouges in the wood in his haste. His muzzle was stained with chicken blood, and his eyes were wild.

“There’s a paladin headed straight towards us, with half-a-dozen soldiers. They must know we’re here,” he called out.

“What is it doing? Is it rabid?” Ylla asked, backing away anxiously. Isaand realized with a start that she couldn’t hear the sendra. His speech did not come from his animal mouth, but from mind, and only Isaand, linked to him as his master, could hear it. “Vehx is a friend, don’t worry. We don’t have time to talk though. There are people coming, and if they catch us, they’ll do something bad. We have to run, Ylla.” He stood up and quickly gathered up his belongings, already set in a roll on the trunk by his bed. He was always prepared to move quickly.

Ylla nodded gravely and stood, looking around the room to make certain they were leaving nothing. Isaand gestured to the window, then paused. He reached into the pocket of his cloak and took out a curved dagger, five inches long in a leather sheath. Reversing it, he held it out to the girl.

“This is for you. Do not draw it unless your life is in danger… but if it is, do what you have to do.”

Her eyes, wide and frightened, studied the dagger for several seconds. Then she snatched it from his hand.

Szet, watch over us, he prayed.